And so our life went on the same, but yet not the same. For I had the
Land of Promise to dream of, and as I went about my tasks I conjured
up in my mind pictures of its beauty. You will forgive a backwoods
boy,--self-centred, for lack of wider interest, and with a little
imagination. Bear hunting with my father, and an occasional trip on
the white mare twelve miles to the Cross-Roads for salt and other
necessaries, were the only diversions to break the routine of my days.
But at the Cross-Roads, too, they were talking of Kaintuckee. For so the
Land was called, the Dark and Bloody Ground.
The next year came a war on the Frontier, waged by Lord Dunmore,
Governor of Virginia. Of this likewise I heard at the Cross-Roads,
though few from our part seemed to have gone to it. And I heard there,
for rumors spread over mountains, that men blazing in the new land were
in danger, and that my hero, Boone, was gone out to save them. But in
the autumn came tidings of a great battle far to the north, and of the
Indians suing for peace.
The next year came more tidings of a sort I did not understand. I
remember once bringing back from the Cross-Roads a crumpled newspaper,
which my father read again and again, and then folded up and put in his
pocket. He said nothing to me of these things. But the next time I went
to the Cross-Roads, the woman asked me:--
“Is your Pa for the Congress?”
“What’s that?” said I.
“I reckon he ain’t,” said the woman, tartly. I recall her dimly, a
slattern creature in a loose gown and bare feet, wife of the storekeeper
and wagoner, with a swarm of urchins about her. They were all very
natural to me thus. And I remember a battle with one of these urchins in
the briers, an affair which did not add to the love of their family for
ours. There was no money in that country, and the store took our pelts
in exchange for what we needed from civilization. Once a month would
I load these pelts on the white mare, and make the journey by the path
down the creek. At times I met other settlers there, some of them not
long from Ireland, with the brogue still in their mouths. And again,
I saw the wagoner with his great canvas-covered wagon standing at the
door, ready to start for the town sixty miles away. ‘Twas he brought the
news of this latest war.
One day I was surprised to see the wagoner riding up the path to our
cabin, crying out for my father, for he was a violent man. And a violent
scene followed. They remained for a long time within the house, and when
they came out the wagoner’s face was red with rage. My father, too, was
angry, but no more talkative than usual.
“Ye say ye’ll not help the Congress?” shouted the wagoner.
“I’ll not,” said my father.
“Ye’ll live to rue this day, Alec Trimble,” cried the man. “Ye may think
ye’re too fine for the likes of us, but there’s them in the settlement
that knows about ye.”
With that he flung himself on his horse, and rode away. But the next
time I went to the Cross-Roads the woman drove me away with curses, and
called me an aristocrat. Wearily I tramped back the dozen miles up the
creek, beside the mare, carrying my pelts with me; stumbling on the
stones, and scratched by the dry briers. For it was autumn, the woods
all red and yellow against the green of the pines. I sat down beside the
old beaver dam to gather courage to tell my father. But he only smiled
bitterly when he heard it. Nor would he tell me what the word aristocrat
meant.
That winter we spent without bacon, and our salt gave out at Christmas.
It was at this season, if I remember rightly, that we had another
visitor. He arrived about nightfall one gray day, his horse jaded and
cut, and he was dressed all in wool, with a great coat wrapped about
him, and high boots. This made me stare at him. When my father drew back
the bolt of the door he, too, stared and fell back a step.
“Come in,” said he.
“D’ye ken me, Alec?” said the man.
He was a tall, spare man like my father, a Scotchman, but his hair was
in a cue.
“Come in, Duncan,” said my father, quietly. “Davy, run out for wood.”
Loath as I was to go, I obeyed. As I came back dragging a log behind
me I heard them in argument, and in their talk there was much about the
Congress, and a woman named Flora Macdonald, and a British fleet sailing
southward.
“We’ll have two thousand Highlanders and more to meet the fleet. And
ye’ll sit at hame, in this hovel ye’ve made yeresel” (and he glanced
about disdainfully) “and no help the King?” He brought his fist down on
the pine boards.
“Ye did no help the King greatly at Culloden, Duncan,” said my father,
dryly.
Our visitor did not answer at once.
“The Yankee Rebels ‘ll no help the House of Stuart,” said he, presently.
“And Hanover’s coom to stay. Are ye, too, a Rebel, Alec Ritchie?”
I remember wondering why he said Ritchie.
“I’ll no take a hand in this fight,” answered my father.
And that was the end of it. The man left with scant ceremony, I guiding
him down the creek to the main trail. He did not open his mouth until I
parted with him.
“Puir Davy,” said he, and rode away in the night, for the moon shone
through the clouds.
I remember these things, I suppose, because I had nothing else to think
about. And the names stuck in my memory, intensified by later events,
until I began to write a diary.
And now I come to my travels. As the spring drew on I had had a feeling
that we could not live thus forever, with no market for our pelts. And
one day my father said to me abruptly:--
“Davy, we’ll be travelling.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Ye’ll ken soon enough,” said he. “We’ll go at crack o’ day.”
We went away in the wild dawn, leaving the cabin desolate. We loaded the
white mare with the pelts, and my father wore a woollen suit like that
of our Scotch visitor, which I had never seen before. He had clubbed his
hair. But, strangest of all, he carried in a small parcel the silk gown
that had been my mother’s. We had scant other baggage.
We crossed the Yadkin at a ford, and climbing the hills to the south of
it we went down over stony traces, down and down, through rain and sun;
stopping at rude cabins or taverns, until we came into the valley of
another river. This I know now was the Catawba. My memories of that ride
are as misty as the spring weather in the mountains. But presently the
country began to open up into broad fields, some of these abandoned to
pines. And at last, splashing through the stiff red clay that was up to
the mare’s fetlocks, we came to a place called Charlotte Town. What a
day that was for me! And how I gaped at the houses there, finer than
any I had ever dreamed of! That was my first sight of a town. And how I
listened open-mouthed to the gentlemen at the tavern! One I recall had a
fighting head with a lock awry, and a negro servant to wait on him, and
was the principal spokesman. He, too, was talking of war. The Cherokees
had risen on the western border. He was telling of the massacre of a
settlement, in no mild language.
“Sirs,” he cried, “the British have stirred the redskins to this. Will
you sit here while women and children are scalped, and those devils” (he
called them worse names) “Stuart and Cameron go unpunished?”
My father got up from the corner where he sat, and stood beside the man.
“I ken Alec Cameron,” said he.
The man looked at him with amazement.
“Ay?” said he, “I shouldn’t think you’d own it. Damn him,” he cried, “if
we catch him we’ll skin him alive.”
“I ken Cameron,” my father repeated, “and I’ll gang with you to skin him
alive.”
The man seized his hand and wrung it.
“But first I must be in Charlestown,” said my father.
The next morning we sold our pelts. And though the mare was tired,
we pushed southward, I behind the saddle. I had much to think about,
wondering what was to become of me while my father went to skin Cameron.
I had not the least doubt that he would do it. The world is a storybook
to a lad of nine, and the thought of Charlestown filled me with a
delight unspeakable. Perchance he would leave me in Charlestown.
At nightfall we came into a settlement called the Waxhaws. And there
being no tavern there, and the mare being very jaded and the roads
heavy, we cast about for a place to sleep. The sunlight slanting over
the pine forest glistened on the pools in the wet fields. And it so
chanced that splashing across these, swinging a milk-pail over his head,
shouting at the top of his voice, was a red-headed lad of my own age. My
father hailed him, and he came running towards us, still shouting, and
vaulted the rails. He stood before us, eying me with a most mischievous
look in his blue eyes, and dabbling in the red mud with his toes. I
remember I thought him a queer-looking boy. He was lanky, and he had a
very long face under his tousled hair.
My father asked him where he could spend the night.
“Wal,” said the boy, “I reckon Uncle Crawford might take you in. And
again he mightn’t.”
He ran ahead, still swinging the pail. And we, following, came at length
to a comfortable-looking farmhouse. As we stopped at the doorway a
stout, motherly woman filled it. She held her knitting in her hand.
“You Andy!” she cried, “have you fetched the milk?”
Andy tried to look repentant.
“I declare I’ll tan you,” said the lady. “Git out this instant. What
rascality have you been in?”
“I fetched home visitors, Ma,” said Andy.
“Visitors!” cried the lady. “What ‘ll your Uncle Crawford say?" And she
looked at us smiling, but with no great hostility.
“Pardon me, Madam,” said my father, “if we seem to intrude. But my mare
is tired, and we have nowhere to stay.”
Uncle Crawford did take us in. He was a man of substance in that
country,--a north of Ireland man by birth, if I remember right.
I went to bed with the red-headed boy, whose name was Andy Jackson. I
remember that his mother came into our little room under the eaves and
made Andy say his prayers, and me after him. But when she was gone
out, Andy stumped his toe getting into bed in the dark and swore with a
brilliancy and vehemence that astonished me.
It was some hours before we went to sleep, he plying me with questions
about my life, which seemed to interest him greatly, and I returning in
kind.
“My Pa’s dead,” said Andy. “He came from a part of Ireland where they
are all weavers. We’re kinder poor relations here. Aunt Crawford’s
sick, and Ma keeps house. But Uncle Crawford’s good, an’ lets me go to
Charlotte Town with him sometimes.”
I recall that he also boasted some about his big brothers, who were away
just then.
Andy was up betimes in the morning, to see us start. But we didn’t
start, because Mr. Crawford insisted that the white mare should have a
half day’s rest. Andy, being hustled off unwillingly to the “Old Field”
school, made me go with him. He was a very headstrong boy.
I was very anxious to see a school. This one was only a log house in a
poor, piny place, with a rabble of boys and girls romping at the door.
But when they saw us they stopped. Andy jumped into the air, let out a
war-whoop, and flung himself into the midst, scattering them right and
left, and knocking one boy over and over. “I’m Billy Buck!” he cried.
“I’m a hull regiment o’ Rangers. Let th’ Cherokees mind me!”
“Way for Sandy Andy!” cried the boys. “Where’d you get the new boy,
Sandy?”
“His name’s Davy,” said Andy, “and his Pa’s goin’ to fight the
Cherokees. He kin lick tarnation out’n any o’ you.”
Meanwhile I held back, never having been thrown with so many of my own
kind.
“He’s shot painters and b’ars,” said Andy. “An’ skinned ‘em. Kin you
lick him, Smally? I reckon not.”
Now I had not come to the school for fighting. So I held back.
Fortunately for me, Smally held back also. But he tried skilful tactics.
“He kin throw you, Sandy.”
Andy faced me in an instant.
“Kin you?” said he.
There was nothing to do but try, and in a few seconds we were rolling on
the ground, to the huge delight of Smally and the others, Andy shouting
all the while and swearing. We rolled and rolled and rolled in the mud,
until we both lost our breath, and even Andy stopped swearing, for want
of it. After a while the boys were silent, and the thing became grim
earnest. At length, by some accident rather than my own strength, both
his shoulders touched the ground. I released him. But he was on his feet
in an instant and at me again like a wildcat.
“Andy won’t stay throwed,” shouted a boy. And before I knew it he had
my shoulders down in a puddle. Then I went for him, and affairs were
growing more serious than a wrestle, when Smally, fancying himself safe,
and no doubt having a grudge, shouted out:--
“Tell him he slobbers, Davy.”
Andy did slobber. But that was the end of me, and the beginning of
Smally. Andy left me instantly, not without an intimation that he
would come back, and proceeded to cover Smally with red clay and blood.
However, in the midst of this turmoil the schoolmaster arrived,
haled both into the schoolhouse, held court, and flogged Andrew with
considerable gusto. He pronounced these words afterwards, with great
solemnity:--
“Andrew Jackson, if I catch ye fightin’ once more, I’ll be afther givin’
ye lave to lave the school.”
I parted from Andy at noon with real regret. He was the first boy with
whom I had ever had any intimacy. And I admired him: chiefly, I fear,
for his fluent use of profanity and his fighting qualities. He was a
merry lad, with a wondrous quick temper but a good heart. And he seemed
sorry to say good-by. He filled my pockets with June apples--unripe, by
the way--and told me to remember him when I got till Charlestown.
I remembered him much longer than that, and usually with a shock of
surprise.